Model for the Toff

by John Creasey

  “Let me see any messages, Jolly.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jolly, “although most of them are negative. There hasn’t been much time yet, of course, and most of the reports are at second-hand, but there are one or two interesting factors.” He reported what Rollison already knew, and went on: “As far as I have yet been able to find out, however, all of them are perfectly well and working—some as models, some in different occupations. There is as yet no report that any of them has explained why she left Zana – except to give the reasons already quoted, sir – but the most significant message is one that isn’t written down. I took it just before your taxi pulled up outside.”

  “Ah! What was it?” Rollison sat up.

  “One of Ebbutt’s men, named Higgs, has done a little art school modelling himself, sir, and he knows some of the people in the sphere. He has met Rose Mary Bell on several occasions, and knows some of her friends. He appears to have followed a line of inquiry which promises results. He thinks he’s traced the young woman, sir.”

  Jolly stopped.

  Rollison stared, as if doubting the evidence of his ears. “Say that again.”

  “He appears to be quite serious, sir, and feels confident that he knows where the young woman is.”

  “Next time, break news like this gently,” begged Rollison. “Did you think to get the address?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Jolly, “and as I distrust my memory on such details, I wrote it down, sir. Shall I get it?”

  “Please.”

  Jolly turned towards the desk, and as he did so the telephone bell rang. That broke the period of blessed quiet, and it did more, for it made Rollison want to do two things at once.

  Jolly said quickly: “I’ll answer, sir,” and lifted the telephone, but Rollison stood up and stepped to the desk, while Jolly spoke.

  Could Higgs know where to find Rose Mary?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cause For Suspicion

  “This is Mr. Richard Rollison’s residence,” announced Jolly with a formality which few sensations could ever shake.

  Rollison looked for the name and address which he had missed before, and could not see it.

  “I’m not sure whether Mr. Rollison is in. If you will hold on, I will find out,” said Jolly, and hugged the telephone to his chest as Rollison glanced up, still unable to find what he was looking for.

  “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Charles Russell, sir.”

  “I’m in,” said Rollison. “Ask him to hold on.” He made a final inspection of the desk, but saw no sign of the vital slip of paper. Jolly would have it; the brief delay didn’t really matter, yet for those few seconds finding out where Rose Mary Bell might be was the most important thing in the world. “All right,” he said at last, and took the telephone. “Yes, Mr. Russell?”

  “Is that Richard Rollison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen, Rollison,” said Russell abruptly. “I don’t know much about you or how good you are, but I’m damned worried about the way this affair is going.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” Rollison fought back a temptation to be brusque. “A lot of people are worried.”

  “I’m not sure that they’re worried enough,” Russell said. “I was all for calling you in, as the police didn’t seem anxious to help, but I didn’t think it would mean taking risks with—well, anyone like Lady Maude.”

  “Friend of yours?” inquired Rollison.

  “I don’t have to be a friend to like the way she looks and the way she walks,” Russell said roundly. “She’s supposed to be a friend of yours, but look what you’re doing to her. She’ll throw this job up if you say the word, and you ought to say the word.”

  “You don’t know Maude very well,” said Rollison mildly. “But I understood that you’d approved of her being employed by Zana, and that he consulted you first. Why the sudden change of front?”

  Russell didn’t answer.

  “No reason at all?” suggested Rollison.

  “I’ve a reason, and a damned good one, too,” said Russell abruptly. “Now that I know she’s a friend of yours, and that you’re working for us on this ruddy business, the devils will make a dead set at her. Good God! Haven’t you seen enough already? They might have scarred her for life at that tea-shop, or else have blinded her. How can you justify taking risks like that?”

  “I don’t think I should worry too much about Maude,” advised Rollison, and was less tempted to be impatient. “She also knows what she’s doing, and she’ll have protection.”

  “Protection,” echoed Russell bitterly. “I suppose you mean those flat-headed flatfoots.”

  Rollison found himself chuckling.

  “If you mean the police—”

  “I mean the police. What good are they going to be? Zana asked them to find out what’s going on, and all they did was to put him off, and say they’d look into it. They haven’t looked far! Then there’s what happened this afternoon. The police tagged along when all the danger was over. Why, I was there before they were.”

  “Yes, you were,” said Rollison, “but even the police can’t be expected to guess when trouble’s coming. What did you really ring up about?”

  “I want you to persuade Lady Maude to throw her hand in.”

  “Even if I tried it couldn’t be done, and I don’t feel disposed to try.”

  “Then you’re either a lunatic or a knave,” Russell said abruptly, and banged his receiver down.

  Rollison replaced his slowly and very thoughtfully. For the moment, he had forgotten the slip of paper and that name and address of the place where Rose Mary Bell might be. Facts were facts. Russell was a good-looking, hot-headed individual, working very close to Zana. Russell had stayed behind at the salon, and could have telephoned or talked to the man who had attacked them at Anne’s. Now he was doing his damndest to make Maude do what all of Zana’s models had done.

  “Cause for suspicion,” Rollison said, and noticed that Jolly was bending down by the front of the desk; suddenly Jolly went down on his knees. “Can’t you find it either?” he asked. “Don’t say we’ve had visitors and that no one saw them call.”

  “I distinctly remember—” began Jolly, and then he stood up and snapped his fingers with vexation. “What a fool I am! I remember taking it into the kitchen with me; I’ll go and get it, sir. I do hope you will relax for an hour or two, and not go out again yet.” He stood up and, obviously annoyed with himself, went into the kitchen, carrying the tea tray.

  Rollison lit a cigarette and pondered on the causes for suspecting Charles Russell.

  He went to the telephone and dialled Ebbutt’s number, and was answered promptly by Ebbutt himself in a voice which was like no other voice in the whole of London.

  “Oh, ’allo, Mr. Ar! Everything being done to your satisfaction?”

  “Very smoothly so far, Bill,” said Rollison. “Tiny Joe isn’t doing anything on the job, is he?”

  “Didn’t look like a job for Tiny Joe,” said Ebbutt, “but if you think—”

  “It wasn’t, but one’s turned up,” said Rollison. “Could you send him over?”

  “Sure, right away, he’s punching the ball at the moment. Tailing job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Try to make sure ’e don’t ’urt ’is ’ands, will you,” pleaded Ebbutt. “Quite the most promising boy I’ve had for a long time, got a bit of the old devil in him, haven’t seen an ’arder punch from a little ’un since the palmy days of Jimmy Wilde. Cor, there was a fighter for you, when Jimmy—”

  “Ask Tiny Joe to come in the back way,” interrupted Rollison, “and tell him he’s to keep out of trouble on the way.”

  “Like telling a wasp to keep out of honey, that is,” said Ebbutt, lugubriously. “But okay, Mr. Ar, the back way. Call it settled.”

  “Thanks, Bill.”

  “Always a pleasure,” said Ebbutt, “especially on a job like this.” He chuckled hoarsely. “You ought to ’ave heard the whistle wo
t went up when that picture passed rahnd. Know what Liz said? Lot of ’ungry ravenous wolves, she said. Okay, I know you don’t want to stay and listen to me gassing, cheer-i-ho.”

  Rollison was smiling when he rang off.

  Jolly appeared with a slip of paper, and handed it to Rollison, who read:

  Benjamin Allen,

  Heath View,

  Heath Rise,

  Hounslow, Middx.

  “I’ve checked both in the telephone directory and in the street directory and haven’t found anyone named Allen at such an address,” Jolly said. “But when Ebbutt’s man telephoned he seemed quite sure of himself.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Higgs, sir.”

  “Sound chap, Higgs,” said Rollison. “Did he tell you how he got on to the address?”

  “No more than I’ve told you, sir, but you know how he is inclined to like to show off, and how he enjoys being somewhat mysterious on occasion. I understood that he was going to this house immediately, and that he would stay there until he had a message from you.”

  “Good,” said Rollison. He had a mental picture of a lean, dark man with a strong-looking jaw and a ready smile in dark eyes. There was probably some Spanish or other southern European blood in Bert Higgs, a man of about thirty and, like most of Ebbutt’s men, at one time a promising boxer. He had never fulfilled that promise, but would fight to the bitter end of any fifteen rounds. “I’ll wait here until Tiny Joe comes, anyhow.”

  “Whom do you wish him to follow, sir?”

  “Our Mr. Charles Russell,” said Rollison, and explained both briskly and briefly, so that Jolly was fully informed, except on one matter: he knew nothing about the metal cylinder which had been tied to the engine of the Bristol. “Nothing else but these reports, Jolly?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What did you think of Zana?”

  “A very forceful character indeed,” mused Jolly. “If I may be permitted to voice a purely speculative opinion, sir, I would say that he could be a very bad hater, and that he might easily arouse bitter enmity in other people of forceful personality.”

  “Yes,” agreed Rollison, “I think you have something there. Someone hates. Zana may know who it is, or he may only guess. But would anyone hate him badly enough to do all the things that are being done?”

  “That is too speculative a matter for me, sir,” murmured Jolly. “Now if you will excuse me, I am preparing a duckling for dinner, as you had very little lunch. And—”

  The telephone bell rang.

  He picked up the receiver quickly, as if to make sure that Rollison did not get out of his chair; to humour him, Rollison leaned back and yawned. But he could not miss the sudden change of expression on Jolly’s face, or his swift, startled glance.

  “Yes, sir,” Jolly said finally. “I will certainly give him your message. Goodbye, sir.”

  He rang off.

  He turned towards Rollison very slowly, and it was difficult to see the expression in his eyes. Certainly he didn’t like what he had heard, and on the instant Rollison was sitting up straight, half afraid of what was coming.

  “That was Mr. Grice, sir,” said Jolly. “He asked me to tell you that the contents of the cylinder tied to the starter arm of your car was in fact nitro-glycerine. He also asked me to tell you not to take any further chances at all. I cannot too strongly support that advice, sir.”

  There was a long silence.

  “I know, Jolly,” Rollison said quietly, “I feel much the same way about it myself. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  Jolly stood looking at him for some time, then bowed slightly, and turned and went away. It was almost as if he felt a premonition of evil things.

  Rollison sat back for twenty minutes, physically relaxed, mentally as alert as he had ever been. At the end of that time, he got up and went into the kitchen, where Jolly, wearing a chef’s apron, was busying himself at a deal-topped table. The duckling, all ready for the oven, stood in a baking tin, and the oven was on, the gas hissing gently.

  “Jolly,” said Rollison, sorrowfully.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No duckling for dinner.”

  “What do you require me to do, sir?”

  “I’d like you to find out all you can about Zana himself, and follow him wherever he goes tonight. I think he’ll be at the salon until after seven o’clock, so you’ve fair time. I’m going to telephone him now, and we’ll soon know if he’s still in. All we want is to know where Zana goes and who visits him, and whether he is being followed by Mr. Smith or by the police. Feel up to it?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Don’t forget what Mr. Grice advised,” said Rollison dryly, and then went into the other room to telephone the salon. He was far too restless to sit back any longer. A girl answered him, brightly.

  “Is Mr. Russell in, please?”

  “Well, he is, sir, but he’s very busy at the moment. Can I give him a message?”

  “It’s all right, I’ll call him later,” said Rollison. “Is Mr. Zana there?”

  “They are in conference, sir, and ”

  “That’s fine, don’t disturb them,” said Rollison.

  So Zana had been right and the artist had soon recovered from his burst of bad temper. Why? Was Russell involved, and did he therefore want to make sure that he was always at the heart of things?

  Rollison told Jolly that Zana was likely to be at the salon for some time, then went into his bedroom. He knelt down and opened a drawer in the bottom of the five-foot wardrobe, and inside was a beautifully made mahogany box. He lifted this to the bed, took out his keys and unlocked the box, then unlocked a metal container inside it. Here were two automatic pistols, one gas pistol in the form of a lighter used for ammonia gas pellets, two knives, one sheathed and one without a sheath, both fitting into a metal clip, something like a grip-type bracelet; these were made to fit the wrist or for the calf of the leg. Rollison fastened one round the calf of his right leg, where it did not impede his movements, and which he hardly felt at all. He slipped an automatic into his coat pocket, where it made only a faint bulge, put the lighter into the ticket pocket of his jacket, and clipped the sheathless knife to his forearm, close to the elbow.

  He closed and locked the box and put it away; when he stood up, he was smiling very thinly.

  “Now we’re ready, Mr. Smith,” he said sotto voce, and went out of the bedroom.

  A moment later, he heard voices in the kitchen, and soon Jolly came into the study-cum-living-room, and asked: “Will you see Tiny Joe now, sir?”

  “Ah, yes, Joe,” said Rollison, and went to greet a painfully thin man who stood barely as high as Jolly’s shoulder. He had a bright pink face, a thin nose and one cauliflower ear, this despite the fact that he was only twenty-one. “Joe,” Rollison said, “I want you to follow a man named Russell, wherever he goes. I’d like a note of everyone he sees and every place he visits. We’ll get someone to give you a rest later on.”

  “I don’t want no rest, twenty-four-hour a day man, that’s me,” said Tiny Joe, and grinned as if he meant it. “Any strong-arm work required, Mr. Ar?”

  “Not if you can help it.”

  “Bit disappointing, ain’t it, sir?”

  “Bill Ebbutt would rather you kept your knuckles for the next time you’re in the ring,” said Rollison. “Everything understood? Jolly will tell you where to find Russell, and all you need to know about him.”

  “Okey-doke, Mr. Ar.”

  “Okey-doke,” responded Rollison, solemnly. “All right, Jolly, I’m off ’.”

  “Be extremely careful, sir,” pleaded Jolly.

  That advice was on everyone’s mind, and it was easy to understand. Rollison could still feel a shiver of alarm when he thought of that hammer hurtling through the air, and of what might have happened if it had set that cylinder rocking. Why set out to kill like that? Why was Mr. Smith so deadly and so desperate?

  It seemed vital to him that Zana should be deserted, and l
eft with no help at all; so vital that he would take such drastic measures to keep Rollison off, and to stop Maude from working for the designer.

  Did he know that Maude had started to work for Zana?

  If he did, who but Russell could have told him?

  In simple truth, several people could, Rollison admitted as he went down the stairs, studying every step with care and making sure that there was nothing to trip him up or blow him to perdition. Russell was simply the most obvious one. The dressmaker, Mitzi, was another. There were several others at the salon who might have heard the news within a few minutes. A word from Mitzi in the dressing-room would have been quite enough to spread word.

  Grice would be following up the work-room people, there was no need for Rollison to worry about the routine. He wanted to answer shock tactics with shock tactics, and if he could find Rose Mary Bell, if he could get her away from wherever she was hiding …

  Unless she had left simply because she had been frightened, and wanted to stay out of Zana’s reach. None of the other girls had named an individual who had lured or frightened them away from Zana. Why should the most famous of his models know any more?

  Rose Mary might not be at Hounslow; but from what he could gather of Jolly’s report, Higgs had been very confident, which probably meant that the boxer was certain.

  Twenty minutes later, at the wheel of a fast grey Jaguar hired from his garage in Piccadilly, Rollison was heading for Hounslow, the Heath, and the house of a man named Allen, where Rose Mary Bell might be.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Higgs

  Where the highwaymen had lurked, in distant days, there was a wide tarred road or narrow tarred paths. Where much of Hounslow Heath had been, there were little houses with little gardens, mostly well-kept, mostly bright, mostly with smoke curling gently from their chimneys. It was a typical London outer suburb now, with bungalows spreading almost like mushrooms, even along Heath Rise. This was a winding road, with open heath on one side, where children played. The scene was much the same as from the window of Beryl Ward’s apartment: a group of eager footballers anticipating the season, a smaller group of die-hard cricketers determined to play for as long as they dared.